


Heaven and Back

by rendain



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, dreamnotfound - Fandom
Genre: How Do I Tag, M/M, Minecraft, Twitch - Freeform, Twitch Streamer - Freeform, Violence, mcyt - Freeform, minecraft youtubers - Freeform, streamer - Freeform, use of alcohol, use of drugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29104740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rendain/pseuds/rendain
Summary: "I know I fucked up, but I can change. I'll bring myself together. I promise."~*TW: USE OF DRUGS (any other warnings will be specified in the chapter.This story is based off the Chase Atlantic song, HEAVEN AND BACK. I'd greatly recommend it, along with literally all of their songs.DO NOT repost.
Relationships: Dream and George - Relationship, dreamnotfound - Relationship, dreamxgeorge
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

TW: MISUSE OF DRUGS AND ALCOHOL.

The sun began to claw its way through George's open curtains, the heat digging deep into his pale skin as he lays motionless on the rough carpet.

The room is torn apart: with bedding that lay strewn across the floor; cans and bottles that he'd never gotten round to cleaning up remain scattered about; and a bucket of vomit from last night even sat by the tips of George's fingers. Nonetheless, the room he remained in was far from clean; it'd been like this for months. His only efforts to sort it out were minor, with doing things such as pushing everything aside so the viewers of his streams wouldn't notice anything amiss, or simply throwing the rubbish in a bin bag, but never even thinking to throw it out.

The boy stirs in his barely conscious state, a small groan escaping his lips as the inevitable migraine begins tearing through his head as if it were a rampaging beast. His nostrils flex slightly as he takes a deep breath to help revive his lack of oxygen, although instantly gagging at the smell of strong alcohol and vomit.

His eyes flutter only slightly open, just enough to see a blurry image of his right arm outstretched before him, his fingers resting gently on the white plastic of a bucket. His twitches his hand, tapping the container with the nail of his index finger, wincing at the sound as it comes across too loud in his previously intoxicated head. A light sigh breaks through the small parting between his lips, the sound briskly filling the room as it seemed to feel like sandpaper against George's eardrums. He doesn't even try to bring himself to move, not wanting to endure the hangover which he knows is bound to hit harder than usual. It's not like he can even remember everything.

George slowly reaches into his trouser pocket, carefully pulling out his phone as it feels icy against his already cold skin. He winces at the sudden ache from each movement throughout his body, still focused on getting his phone rested in front of his face in the hope that someone will revive his memories. He drags to object across the floor, turning it on so the bright light burns deep into his eye sockets, revealing a large set of numbers in the middle of the screen, although George doesn't bother trying to read them; it could mean anything. As he fights to turn down his brightness, an overwhelming amount of notifications flood in, the flashing almost inducing a seizure over the boy's helpless, hungover state. He groans again through the pain, trying his best to find the Snapchat app, knowing damn well everything will be on there, which also means twitter probably got to it. A nearly overwhelming sense of panic rises in his chest, tightening his lungs and raising his heartbeat.

He begins flicking through his story, not wanting to relive anything, but his head itches to understand where it is and what it's doing right this moment. It begins with normal videos of him and Will drinking and dancing, until a few pictures catch him off guard. His eyes widen just enough to allow him to notice his pupils and how large they seem. Even his mind seems so spaced out from his body when the next video shows him shoving more and more alcohol down his throat, until the thing he never ever wanted to see hits him. George can hardly breathe as he shoots diamorphine into his veins with a syringe before proceeding to flush it down a toilet. In the next video, he's outside with Will and a couple of women he vaguely remembers; they're all laughing, talking, but George can hardly understand the words as they come out in a spluttery mess of gibberish. High on drugs, he collapses to the ground, a huge grin on his face as he continues laughing, although the drug doesn't seem to effect him for long as he sees himself black out against the wall, staring into the distance without a sign of movement. It was as if he'd just died there and then, but his mouth closes, tightening into a dull expression as tears begin to run down his pale skin, fighting to get out as if it were the morphine rushing from his blood. He seemed satisfied up until that point, that extreme high rushing downhill so quickly that George can't even seem to process what he's seeing as he watched him smile through the tears. The faint words that he speaks loom wearily in the thick air, still unable to be processed, but maybe that was for the best, as the story ends.

Drugs? Why would he ever need drugs? Why would he ever take them? 

But somehow, even after seeing that, George still longed for more. Knowing that morally it was bad, but he was in a good place. He'd gone to heaven and back, and simply wanted to feel himself up in the sky once again.

He decides to move over to Twitter, without reading the numbers on his Snapchat story, he still deems aware that too many people will have seen it, and this is possibly an awfully threatening situation for George and maybe even Wilbur. And there it is, Georgenotfound, 3rd in trending. He hovers his thumb over his name for a little too long before actually tapping on it, revealing first the video of him high and then completely shutting down, labelled with a clear trigger warning.

He doesn’t even need to watch it, he simply carries on scrolling. It all appears as an infinite repeat of his story with comments like “Why would he do that?” “Is he okay?” “Does he need help?” and even the occasional “This is disgusting, why would you ever support someone like this?”. It doesn’t hurt George, he doesn’t even feel comfort from the people worrying about him, he simply feels nothing but the pain of his hangover, which, quite frankly, is feeling worse than it did when he first woke up. 

About to turn his phone off and get some painkillers, he catches a tweet that he’d never thought he’d expect to see

____________________  
Dream @Dream ⋅ 8h

Hey George, text me please. You worry me.

11.9k 9k 374.6k  
____________________

Desperately wanting to send even just a simple “I’m ok.” to his friend, George knows everything he says will be a lie, he had hardly even moved yet. He decides to address the situation later.

Turning off his phone and sliding it away from him, he pushes himself to a seating position, almost crying when the pain in his head gets harsher, spreading a tiresome and disorientating ache across his whole body. His clothes grip to his skin with sweat, the discomfort bringing him to sweat even more than he already was just a few moments ago. Trying so hard to stand up, he gives up, dragging his frail figure into the kitchen. As his hands press into the cold tile, he yelps in pain, tearing himself backwards as he lays back down in defeat, mumbling inaudible words to himself as he stares upward at the too bright white ceiling.


	2. Chapter 2

TW: MENTIONS OF BLOOD, VOMITING, DRUGS AND ALCOHOL.

Silence engulfs the room as George lays sprawled out across the rough, cream-coloured carpet. His breaths are short and sharp as he almost begins to gasp through the deafening pain. He groans as he tries to move his arm and push himself up, but he can't seem to handle his own body weight as he crashes back to the ground, yelping lightly.

Once again, George reaches in his pocket for his phone, wanting desperately to call someone for help, but his hand reaches nothing but a singular one pence coin; he'd forgotten he'd left it back where he woke up. Sighing, George gives in, relaxing into the floor and allowing his eyes to slowly close. Without intention, George passes out, falling into a deep slumber.

_______________

A cool breeze erects the thin hairs at the back of George’s neck as he pushes himself up off the damp concrete of London’s pavements. His pain from the hangover seemed to be gone as he stands up with ease, wondering how he got to be so far from his home. 

Gazing curiously around, George leans against a wall, which drops straight over to the River Thames. The city is thick with fog and appears completely deserted as not one single person, except for himself, wanders the streets.

He frowns, pondering upon the situation. He’d seen the city like this before, unsure of what the circumstances were. Maybe he’d gone out drinking again and got so blasted he’d been fumbling through the streets at a time not even a car would drive by at. Although, that deems impossible, even at such a late time to be plastered, people would still be roaming the streets, he wouldn’t be alone, and he surely wouldn’t feel so emotionless.

He sighs, resting his elbows on the brick as he holds his head in his lands, staring blankly over the river. A thick fog hangs low over the murky water, pulling a heavy depressing feeling into George’s chest.

The sound of boots tapping against the ground startles the boy, making him jump from his position as he snaps round to the left. His face meets Dream’s mask, as intimidating as it is. He stands there, just inches away from George’s face.

“Dream?” George whispers, his voice low and dry.

The taller boy reaches out, his green sleeve sliding elegantly down his arm as he pushes George’s clout glasses up atop his fluffy brown hair. He softly runs his fingers through his hair before holding his hand at the back of his neck, as if he was supporting George’s head. 

“You’re so much prettier in person.” Dream comments, the smile on his masks burning into the shorter one’s dark brown eyes, that scintillate tenderly in the moonlight. 

“I want to see you smile.” George says, not even flinching at the slightest as Dream moves away. He can hear the sly grin, even under the intimidating mask.

George lifts his left hand to Dream’s face, delicately wrapping his fingers around the object that lays over all the features that would make a person distinguishable. He pauses, shaking silently as he hovers there, wondering that maybe doing this isn’t such a good idea. But the knot unties itself, the string holding the mask up dropping down to either side, gently tapping George’s hand as it sways in the breeze.

He takes a shallow, but long breath, cautiously pulling the mask away. The sharp sound if it hitting the floor rattles the silence as George jumps backward, gasping as he stares at Dream, unable to take his eyes off the sight before him.

He's completely faceless. It's just a black void.

“Something wrong Gogy?” Dream says, his voice menacing as he steps closer, the invisible grin still burning itself into George's retinas.

He lurches to one side, his whole body tensing up as he vomits straight into the river, gagging again upon the taste as his head grows light.

“Does my appearance shock you, baby?” George looks up as the man speaks, the faint outline of orange beginning to glow dimly through the hole. “I'm not even real.” He adds, the words shattering George's insides as it cuts through him like a knife.

But when Dream's hand rests atop George's shoulder, it felt so real.

“Dream.” Is all he can get out, before choking on his words again.

He coughs, spitting blood onto the floor in front of them both.

“Mm, George.” Dream says with a laugh, crouching down to wipe his hand through the pile of blood, painting it across the concrete.

“I'm not even real, George.” He repeats.

George collapses to the ground, his skin getting whiter and whiter as his breathing slows. He doesn't even fight it, he just lays there, slowly falling into oblivion as his death seems to be awaiting his arrival.

_______________

George's eyes tear open, looking around in panic as he gasps for air. His desperation for oxygen brings him to a state of insanity as he claws at the carpet beside him, dragging his body to sit as he takes short, sharp breaths.

The apartment front door slams, causing the boy to jump and all the pain from the hangover to suffocate him once again. As he remains in a state of utter terror and discomfort, the sound of heavy male footsteps rush through to his ears, hitting his skull like a drum with every step.

"George? Where the fuck are you?" He hears, mumbling some words inaudible to even himself through gasps.

He tries his best to scramble up and run, but the sense of being able to hear every sound at once anchors his fragile body down.

"Come on man, say something," He carries on as the footsteps rush towards him at an alarming rate.

He can't seem to bear it anymore, collapsing back to the ground as he finally lets the tears surface, running off the sides of his face as he cries.

"Oh my god, George? Why are you- Do you want some painkillers? Water? Food? What's going on?" Through the blur of tears, his eyes meet Wilbur's, who is looming over him with a perturbed look plastering over his tired face.

"Why?" Is all he can muster, rolling to one side and curling up into the fetus position, pressing his hands over his ears with such force, he was sure to crush his brain.

Through a series of sobs and forcing himself not to scream, George allows Wilbur to shove some painkillers down his throat, along with at least a pint of water.

He chokes on the last gulp, spitting the clear liquid across the kitchen tile as he coughs vigorously. 

“George, can you sit up? It'll help.” Wilbur offers, trying to wrap his arms around the older boy to move him, but the touch burns against his skin.

George rolls away from Wilbur, yelping in pain as he clutches his stomach, unable to crush any further into himself without ripping into his own intestines.

“You're not helping yourself, George. Please let me try.”


	3. Chapter 3

It felt more like death, rather than a hangover.

His body felt like a cloud, floating daintily up in the sky.

“Maybe we should get you to the hospital.” Wilbur says, tapping his pockets to try and find his phone, “You look pale as anything and you were absolutely wasted last night.”

But his friend's words don't quite reach his ears as he stares aimlessly at the door frame that separated the kitchen and living room.

He couldn't stop thinking back to that dream. Everything was so empty, but the corners of all that was said or done felt so sharp, like a knife was slowly pushing itself through George's chest.

He feels himself plummet from his place up in the clouds, sitting up with a rough, sudden movement. He frantically gasps for air, clawing at the carpet below him as his eyes widen, his pupils large, in a state of pure panic.

What if he really was dying right there and then? He'd need to write a will, or text everyone he knows, or stream or, or, or-

“George, it's me, Will. Can you hear me?” Wilbur asks, cutting off the older boy's thoughts. He slowly reaches out, placing a hand on shoulder, trying to help him calm himself.

George's movements slow as he locks eye contact with Wilbur, staring intently as if he'd never seen him before. 

“Do you want me to ring an ambulance?” He offers, but George rapidly shakes his head, mumbling ‘no' to himself for a few seconds before stopping.

He looks away from Wilbur as his pain lessens a little; the painkillers must be kicking in.

“What happened?” George says, his words seeming slow as he speaks with a certain caution.

“I don't remember much, George. I've never seen you so drunk. You would not stop drinking as if you'd just die if you did. I remember we met a couple of women and they were into going late night dancing. You told your entire life story to them, it was bizarre, you'd never even tell Dream the things you'd said to them. They'd shown you a drug that it didn't appear you'd had before. You bought it off them, and used it. I thought it was no biggie, but when you left reality completely, I mean, I've never seen you so happy. Although, maybe an hour or so later, you simply collapsed against a wall… I don't know what happened.”

Wilbur moves about a foot away from George, sitting in front of him with his legs crossed, “Next time we go out, promise me you won't drink so much or get high again? I know you seem so low recently, and I don't know how to help you because you won't talk. I just want to be here for you, but intoxicating yourself into a shell of drugs isn't going to help you forever, it's all temporary.” 

“I just wanted to feel something.” George responds, his voice softening into a quieter tone.

“Do you want to talk to me about anything?”

“No.” He responds, gently shaking his head.

George places his palms against the ground, pushing himself up to stand. He winces in pain as his head still throbs against his skull. With small steps, he makes his way over to where he’d originally awoken, gazing mindlessly around as he tries to find his phone.

“Do you want me to make some break- lunch for you?” Wilbur asks, trudging into the living room, folding his arms as he watches George almost trip over nothing.

“I’d appreciate that.” He simply states, crouching to pick up the electronic object that felt too heavy in his grasp.

When he presses the button to turn it on, the screen remains black; it must’ve died. He groans quietly as the pain of standing up washes over his entire body once again, leaving him half crouched in a mess of white noise all around him.

“Do you want help?” Wilbur offers, the grogginess in his own voice becoming clearer to George as he suddenly feels like an incompitent baby.

“No, I’m fine. It’s just a hangover.” He protests, forcing himself to straighten up and move to where his phone charger is: by the sofa. 

Even with a tingly sensation in his knees, he seems to get to his destination in one piece.

Slumping down on the couch, he plugs in his phone, staring glumly at the dull, empty battery icon which lights up in the midst of the inky blackness.

“Food!” Wilbur calls, cheerily as he wanders into the room with two bacon sandwiches.

He sits down, placing one of the plates onto George's lap, before turning the TV on. He aimlessly flicks through a few channels before stopping on Dave, where Red Dwarf is playing.

“I'm gonna stream tomorrow.” George comments, taking a small bite from his sandwich.

Wilbur hums in response, finishing his mouthful before answering, “You sure that's a good idea?”

In his head, George knows for sure it isn't a good idea, but the desperation to let everyone know he's okay, and maybe convince them that wasn't him in the video, claws harshly at his chest.

“Probably not. But I don't give a shit.”


	4. Chapter 4

The sun had just begun to set as George sat himself at his desk. He was alone in his flat once again, with that headache still hammering away at his skull. Even the fatigue hadn't left.

But this didn't stop George. He was determined to stream, to show the entire world that he is okay and everything is fine. Maybe they'd think the person on the Snapchat stories wasn't actually him.

Although, when he looked across the room and into the mirror which hung above the dresser, even from a distance, he could see an empty shell staring back. He appeared almost soulless.

With a sigh, George typed in the computer passcode, staring mindlessly at the screen as it loaded everything up. Not a single thought lay behind his eyes as he clicked some buttons, not entirely sure what he was actually doing.

“Maybe I should call Dream.” He says aloud, glancing at the Discord icon on his taskbar.

It had almost been 24 hours since George made the decision to go clubbing with Wilbur. He didn't expect it to fuck up his life so much, even within this short time period.

After a few minutes of silence, the boy blankly called his friend through Discord.

“George?” Is all he heard from the other end of the call. 

He remained frozen in his seat as he watched the green circle dim to nothing. His best friend suddenly felt like a stranger to him, as if this man he used to blabber on to every single day, had never existed in his life. The silence is loud.

It’s so loud that George can hear the ringing in his ears clearer than daylight. 

He clears his throat.

“I'm sorry.” Is all that seems to get out.

“I'm sorry?” George repeats, questioning whether it actually came out.

“For what?”

But George didn't know. He couldn't answer Dream, because he simply did not know. Maybe it was for not speaking out earlier, or doing drugs, or getting so wasted that the past 48 hours is hidden behind a thick layer of fog. But even with that, his apology seemed to mean something bigger.

“I had a dream about you.” He says, fiddling with a stray can on his desk.

“Really? What was it?” Dream asks, the sound of his shuffling closer to the microphone crisp through George's headphones.

“It was more of a hallucination, I suppose. It was too real.”

“What happened?”

“Are you even real?”

“George.”

The call ends.

He remains completely glued to the chair, his pale fingers grasping tightly to the armrests. He can feel the blood pumping through his veins. He can hear his heartbeat. He can hear the silence behind it.

He sighs, moving to the bathroom to wash his face.

As the lukewarm water hits his cheeks, George looks up at himself in the mirror. He looked as white as a sheet of paper, with the dark purple circles digging holes under his dark brown eyes, which seemed devoid of any sparkle that may have been there before.

And when he sat back down at the desk and set himself up, he'd gotten a glass of water on the way. He took a sip, watching as the viewers racked up whilst a picture of his Minecraft background rested silently, waiting for the 5 minute mark where George would show everyone that he's okay.

“Hello chat! I'm here! I'm okay!” He outstretches his arms, grinning too brightly as he speaks.

After a few moments, he sits back in his chair, trying to avoid any eye contact with the chat or donos.

“Look, I know I have a lot to go through in this stream. But, I promise everything will be addressed. I'm going to sit here and talk to you guys, maybe answer some questions, but I don't really know.”

He didn't really know much by that point.

“So,” The music mutes, a deathly silence cutting through the air, “I'm assuming everyone's seen the videos by now. I'm good, but it's a lot to handle when you see your private life being spread across the entirety of the internet. It's my fault it was on Snapchat, I cannot blame anyone else for that, pr anything I've done.”

George takes another drink of water to anxiously glance at the chat for a split second. He doesn't read any of it, but he can see the panic.

“Bet you didn't think I actually went out much. I mean, I don't, but I felt like doing something for a night and dragged Wilbur with me…”

And he sits there, talking about everything, although not mentioning too much as he keeps the details vague and away from the public.

If only he could feel the diamorphine rushing through his blood again, maybe he wouldn't be so shaky.

Maybe he wouldn't be questioning his own reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, I've been a bit busy (playing Minecraft). I know it's short but I have so many ideas and chapters planned for this story, so stick around. :]


End file.
